


To Dine

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-13
Updated: 2011-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:22:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coward enjoy's Henry's voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Dine

**Author's Note:**

> Idk, folks. Um. Although I find it rather epic that there was a periodical at that time named ' Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine'.

Sometimes it was a book of poetry.

Which was something in and of itself, as Henry had never struck him as the type to enjoy poetry, much less those that still held ties to the Romantics. But perhaps his voice gave him away; always, with an undertone of … amusement, a sense that he was only a step away from that slightly condescending smile at these writers, at their flowery language and idealistic flights of fancy.

Coward didn't mind.

Sometimes, it was the newspaper.

Any section, any section at all, from the laughable 'news' to the gossip to ridiculous things like obituaries and ads. It didn't matter; Coward wasn't really listening to what Henry was saying, after all. It was the sound of his voice he craved, the shifting nuances of it, and the leisure to lose himself in it when those words were not directed at him, when he didn't have to pay attention to details.

Sometimes, it was the bible.

Or some other ritualistic book, words of god, words of satan, one and the same - but he took a special pleasure out of listening to Henry read out scripture. Listening to the rise and fall of his voice, the way it would fall so quickly it patterns, rhythms, hypnotizing. How could he not become enthralled by this man, who could make the profane into sacred, and the sacred into something transcendent; more, make it into something stirring, something hungry and wanting.

The surprise was never that he brought things to Henry, with a quirk of a smile and a tilt of his head and a quiet, 'might you care to read this to me?' but rather, that Henry always indulged him. The Henry, in fact, went from sitting across from Coward to next to him to letting Coward sprawl over him, head pressed to his chest to hear the rumble of sound before it became words; 'I can't stand the way you stare, Daniel,' Henry had said, once.

Henry had a habit of, on occasion, when he became caught up in whatever he was reading, waving his hands as he spoke, hardly a gentlemen's gesture at all. But they were exquisite hands, long and lean and capable and how, how could Coward ever resist them, really. How could he ever keep himself from catching one, capturing it between his hands and pulling it in, tugging it to his lips. Kissing the palm of Henry's hand, the pads of his fingertips, his own fingers tracing small circles along the skin, turning his face into the warm cup of Henry's hand and breathing out, in, brushing his lips against the whorls and lines that surely, surely proclaimed some great destiny, content in this moment, hungry.

Henry's voice stutters to a stop; Coward whispers into his fingers, 'don't stop', and Henry takes a breath, shakier than a moment before, and begins to read. Coward licks a long line upwards from Henry's wrist and that gorgeous voice catches, shakes; but he doesn't stop.

Coward grins, and nips at the skin. He wonders how long Henry will hold out, how long he will get to hear the stumbling, the distraction, the want in Henry's voice before he gives up and sets the book aside to put his mouth to other uses.

He wonders that he almost doesn't want that at all.


End file.
